In the Long Run

Scheduling was no problem when we had three functioning vehicles to use between the three of us at home. We all managed our own appointments easily without worrying too much about the others’ commitments, other than to try to arrange a common meal time.

Then a monkey wrench, in the form of a transmission problem with Big Guy’s truck, was thrown into our once smoothly operating system. Suddenly we were in transportation turmoil, trying to juggle two cars between three people.

Work, school, play practice, church meetings, Honor Society, piano lessons, lunch dates, band rehearsals and performances, court hearings, pickleball league games—really, who could say who should have top priority?! I was the master scheduler, trying to insure everyone had some kind of transportation to their activities. We all had to sacrifice some of our taken-for-granted convenience. (Mine came the day I found myself running to work on snow-packed, icy roads while toting a 20-pound backpack.)

We were all relieved when the truck was repaired. But we found ourselves back in vehicle haplessness the next morning, when the truck refused to start, and could not be coaxed with a battery jump either. Additional days without the truck seemed unthinkable, so my husband and I decided to immediately tow the truck back to the repair shop, and hope for a quick fix.

My husband gave me instructions. “You steer the truck while I push it from the driveway into the street. But don’t put the brake on, because you’ll need the momentum to turn the wheel, to get the truck facing the right way.”

“Gotcha,” I said sweetly, grateful that he was the one who would be pushing instead of me. He grunted as he gave the truck a mighty push. It rolled back out of the driveway and into the street. I tried to turn the wheel, and nothing happened. I cranked harder—still nothing. My husband was still pushing, and the truck was heading straight up into the neighbors’ front yard across the street. I braked despite his instructions.

He came to the window. “Why didn’t you turn?” “I couldn’t,” I whined. “The steering wheel absolutely would not turn.” “Did you turn the key on?” he asked, a little condescendingly. Sorry. I didn’t think of that. I’m not too mechanically-minded.

“All right,” he said patiently. “Is it still in neutral? Good. Now, put the clutch in, and I’m going to push you forward, and this time, crank it hard to the right.” He began pushing. And pushing. The truck was not moving. He came back to the door and reached in for the parking brake. “I already took that off,” I said indignantly. Then he looked down incredulously to where my right foot was. “Did you have your foot on the brake?!” Guilty!! My husband fingered a lock of my hair. “What color is this?!” he teased.

After that inauspicious beginning, we became a finely tuned towing team. I drove the towing car, and my husband steered the truck (with the key turned on.) We carefully crawled along, making sure the towing strap had neither too little, nor too much slack. My husband meticulously performed hand signals to alert other drivers of his intent to turn or stop. One social woman, chatting on her cell phone, obviously didn’t recognize that his arm was out the window to signal a right turn. She cheerily waved right back at him.

We made it to the repair shop without any problems. But there is a problem with the mechanic. He says his first open appointment is in a month, but that he’ll try to squeeze in some time now and then between other appointments to take a look at it before then. Hmmm.

So the scheduling nightmare recommences. What should have vehicle priority on Monday—the eye appointment, the fitness assessment, or the job interview? Maybe I better put on my running shoes.

Posted by Cyppy at 7:39 AM